Thaumaturgy
by Kerosene Stevens
Summary: It's supposed to be quick and quiet: go in, meet the mysterious family friend who somehow has connections to a tribe of druids, let this friend take Stiles to those druids, and leave the kingdom that would happily slaughter him for having magic in the dust, never to return. Only, that's not quite how it happens. A Merlin AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Okay, lovelies, this is an experiment in AU. Teen Wolf characters in BBC's Merlin universe. It's gonna be great. Maybe._

 _Some warnings: child abuse active IN THIS CHAPTER ALONE, off-screen suicide IN THIS CHAPTER alone. If this changes, I'll warn you at the beginning of the chapter. Also, suspicious things of a magical nature._

 _Feedback is our friend! Feed the writer before she starves! I'll love you forever if you do!_

**8**

She died of a wasting disease.

It was sudden, except for how it wasn't. She'd started to forget things. Small things, at first, things like where she'd stored the grain or whether she'd mended her son's tunic. It had been bothersome, but Claudia was never the type to burden others with her private concerns. As far as anyone knew, the young mother was only stressed about the upcoming winter months.

Her son played with his only friend, unconcerned.

He was young, and so naturally oblivious to many of the terrible things in the world, so he only took notice when his mother shouted at him for the first time. Claudia was known to be a gentle soul, and had never raised her voice in such a manner at anyone undeserving.

He had blinked up at her, eyes wide and teary, his toy horse forgotten at his feet. Claudia's sudden burst of anger dissolved as soon as she'd closed her mouth.

"'M not a horrible child," he sniffed. One small hand came up to wipe at his cheek. Claudia felt horrible.

"No, darling," she breathed, kneeling to scoop him up into a hug. His arms wrapped around her neck tightly. "Of course not. I'm sorry."

"S'ok," her son mumbled, burying his face into her blouse. "'Slong as you don't say it again."

"Of course not," she promised, shaken. She didn't know what had come over her. "Never again."

At the turn of the season, some weeks after Claudia had started to worry, someone knocked on Melissa's door. She was slightly surprised by this, as everyone knew she had an open door policy for those who needed her. Confused, Melissa instructed her young son, Scott, to stay at the table and finish his evening meal while she answered the door.

The knock came a second time before she got there. It was hurried, and quiet, as though the fist that caused the sound was small, or not much force was put behind the blow. Melissa found herself slightly concerned, and opened the door without any hesitation.

"Saker?" She recognized her son's playmate, Claudia's child from a few houses over. He was visibly upset, scrubbing at the tears on his cheeks and hiccuping every few seconds. Melissa had never seen him so upset over anything, even when Scott had pushed him into a mud puddle and ruined his favourite red tunic. Concerned, she crouched down to get his attention. "What's wrong?"

"It's mum," he cried, reaching for her with one hand. The other he kept pressed to his face. "There's something wrong with mum."

"Oh," Melissa hummed, her heart aching for the distressed child. She drew him into a quick hug, slightly surprised when he fell wholeheartedly into it with a wail. "What happened, dear? Why are you so sad?"

Saker had Melissa's sleeves bunched up in his hands, face mashed into her shoulder. He was still crying hard. "Mum said - she said I'm a monster but I'm _not,_ I'm _not_ a monster, she told me I wasn't and then she h-" he hiccuped, and dissolved into another bout of hysterics. She hummed soothingly and patted his back. There was much to consider here, she thought. On one hand, she'd never seen Saker so distressed about anything; on the other, Claudia had nothing but kind words and a giving heart for everyone, especially her son. Unless her private home life was entirely different from the show of love and devotion mother and child presented…

Melissa thought of Scott, and could hardly imagine such a thing to be true.

"Why don't you come inside," she said, rather than giving voice to her progressively darker thoughts. "Come on, up you get - oof." It took some effort to hoist him up and get to her feet. She stepped backwards into the house and kicked the door shut. "You're getting big, Saker!"

"I don' feel very big," he mumbled, pulling away from her shoulder and releasing her sleeve long enough to rub at his face again. It only smeared the tears and snot around more. Melissa tutted and pulled a cloth out of her pocket to clean his face with. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Melissa said softly, trying very hard to make it look like he didn't just break her heart. She set him down and pushed him lightly towards the table. Scott, who had clearly been listening, waved cheerily with his spoon. A bit of stew spattered on the floor around him. She would've been upset about it, but Saker apparently needed it: he gave a strangled giggle, started to smile, and waved back tentatively. _Good._

"Sit with Scott, here," she directed, ushering Claudia's son to the other chair. Her own meal was set there, and she welcomed him to it. Her appetite was on hold until she could go to Claudia's and talk it over with her friend. They hadn't seen each other in days. "There, have a seat and eat, okay? I'm going to go out for a visit - _don't touch the candles,_ I'm looking at you, Scott - and I'll be right back. Alright?"

"Yes, mum," Scott said cheerfully. Saker agreed with a slightly wider smile. She kept a playful eye on them until she'd stepped over the threshold and left the house.

It was dark outside. Their village was small, too small to have earned its own name, with perhaps twenty homes packed closely together at the edge of the forest that travelled the border between the kingdom they resided in and another. None of the village's residents were particularly skilled carpenters, and the village was actually rather old despite its small size and lack of growth, so the thatch and wood houses were in a state of general disrepair. It lent strange shapes to the outskirts of the poorly lit path that played at being the only main road. Melissa traveled this path quickly and with purpose, refusing to so much as glance into the shadows that seemed to move if one looked too close. She was not a particularly superstitious woman, but the village had yet to grow for a reason, and that reason felt a lot like the magic and mystery which oozed from the forest and fogged up the fields. There was a reason she never let Scott out past sundown.

The same reason Claudia had never let Saker go out that late, as well.

Claudia's windows were dark, and the front door had been knocked off its hinges. It was very quiet here. If ever Melissa had seen a place she did not want to enter, it was this home at this moment. Not even the wind seemed to move, lending the building a cold, airless feeling. It was nothing short of uninviting. She steeled herself, righted the door, and stepped inside.

The inside was as silent as out, and just as dark, if not darker. Melissa reached out to the table most residents of this village kept by the door for a lantern. Her hands brushed several objects that felt unfamiliar before settling on a candle, since she couldn't seem to find the lantern. Dragging the candle and its holder closer, she dug around her pocket for the pouch of quartz and steel and proceeded to struggle to light it in the dark. Eventually it took, and Melissa, now thoroughly unnerved by the complete silence, lifted it high enough to spot another candle. She used the first to light the second, choosing to leave it at the side table while she took the other further into the house.

"Claudia?" she called, slightly more confident now that she had a light with which to see things coming. The light cast away some of the shadows, catching on the edge of a table, the cold mantle, a flash of reflected light in the corner. Upon further investigation, she realized she'd just found the shattered remains of the lantern she'd been searching for previously. It had been made of glass and cold iron, and now lay twisted and irreparable on the dirt floor.

"Claudia?" she tried again, moving away from the broken lantern. She took a moment to explore the dark fireplace before stepping, more carefully now, further into the house. "Are you here?"

Then she heard it: a quiet shuffling and even quieter sniff, somewhere in the darkness before her. Armed with only a candle, Melissa was starting to wonder if she needed to find a proper fighter in case the worst had happened. "Claud?"

The candlelight finally brushed over something in the darkness. Something that moved. A louder sniffle. Melissa tensed, stepping carefully. A piece of glass crunched under her boot.

"Who's there?" she demanded, sounding much braver than she felt. She thrust the candle out to arm's length, rather than keeping it close to her body as she had been, in an attempt to get whatever was moving in the darkness into the little ring of light it afforded.

Unfortunately, she got what she'd wanted.

Claudia had never looked so terrible. Her face was thin and clammy, dark shadows under her eyes. She and Saker were naturally of pale complexion, but now she was white as milk, unhealthily so. Her hair, normally pulled back into a smooth, sensible bun, lay in greasy tangles around her ears. The tie was tangled into one twisted lock. Her dress was torn and dirty, and her eyes, once a bright chocolate brown, were dark and hollow. She looked as though she'd been starved for weeks in a cage, not caring for a child in a home with at the very least the basic necessities.

Melissa was horrified.

"Mel?" Claudia's voice was rough, as though she'd either not been talking at all or doing a lot of screaming very recently. She was curled up on her floor mattress like she'd been attacked, or as though she were about to be. The village was very close-knit. How had none of them noticed? "Melissa, you must help me."

Melissa dropped to her knees beside Claudia, setting the candle carefully onto the floor beside them. "Of course," she said at once, laying a reassuring hand on her friend's bare arm. Her skin was cold. "Come back to my home. We'll get you cleaned up. Scott and Saker are waiting -"

" _No!_ " the other woman spat with a surprising amount of venom. "I shall not go near that - that _thing._ Not while it wears my son's face."

"Claudia, you can't mean that!" Melissa cried, shocked. "What are you saying?"

"That creature, the one in your home," Claudia moaned. She shook under Melissa's palm. Her mood changed from fury to unbearable sadness in the time it took to blink. "It is a changeling, it's not _human_. My Saker never - _never_ had such eyes. They stare into your soul, empty as can be. It's horrible. _Awful_. I've not ever _seen_ -"

"Saker is just a boy, Claudia," the other mother reminded her distraught friend. She was shaken by this turn of events. Saker, crying about his mother saying cruel things. His mother, saying _unimaginably cruel things_ about her own child. "A frightened boy, barely seven. Even if he were young enough to be snatched away by _changelings_ , of all things -" which she had a hard time believing in, if she were honest, "I hardly think he could be one. He came to my house crying, over things you had said to him!"

"Trying to gain favor," Claudia snarled, shrugging her friend's hand off, "now that I've found it out! It _knows_ , Mel, it's very smart!"

"He's _human,_ Claud!" Melissa stressed, stomach churning. She'd not experienced this sort of madness before. Even with her knowledge of healing, she had no idea what to do. This was not what she had been expecting. "As human as you or I."

" _He's a monster!"_

The words fell like stone into the sudden silence, broken only by Claudia's heavy breathing. Her nails dug into the soft earth, creating little furrows.

"He's a monster." She stared at the candle, eyes wide and unseeing. "My poor boy. What happened to him? What corrupted him so? Mel…"

Melissa pursed her lips and took a deep, steadying breath. She reached out and took one of her friend's shaking hands, clasping it between both of her own. There was blood under her cracked and broken nails, packed with dirt and grime. "I'm keeping Saker at my house tonight," she said firmly. "Clean yourself up tonight, and come pick him up tomorrow evening. You'll use that time to put your home to rights, and prepare yourself to once again parent your child. _He is your son_ ," she declared, overriding Claudia's immediate protests. "You'll see it again in the morning. I'll spend the day looking over my texts to find out exactly what's wrong, but - Claud. You're not well."

"I know," the broken woman wailed, and burst into tears. Her face scrunched up much the same as her son's did, when upset. Melissa's heart broke, and she immediately brought her friend close for a hug. Also much the same as Saker, she latched onto her friend's sleeves and cried into her shoulder. They sat there together for a very long time.

Eventually, Melissa let go and got to her feet, brushing the dirt from her skirts. She picked up the candle and stared down at her friend. "Good night, Claudia," she murmured. "Sleep well."

The younger woman stared blankly at her for several moments in silence, tears streaking through the dirt on her cheeks, before turning and lying down on her bed much the way she'd been sitting: hunched and uncomfortable. Melissa took this as her cue to leave, just as quiet.

She was deeply worried about Claudia. This change in attitude seemed to have come out of nowhere, and her perception of Saker made her wonder if she should either take a closer look at the boy, or not allow him to leave. Perhaps both, she decided. There could, after all, be merit to her friend's words. There could also be some horrible misunderstanding. Something in the water?

 _Or it could be true…_

By the time she set foot back in her own home, she'd managed to plaster a smile back on her face. The boys were waiting for her at the door, Scott with a grin and Saker with a strained expression.

"Mum!" her son exclaimed, barrelling into her legs. She staggered back a step, hand clutching the door, and greeted him in turn. Saker stood a few feet behind, wringing his hands. Any enjoyment he'd gotten from being with Scott had faded. Melissa offered him a reassuring smile, causing him to relax a touch.

"What do you think," she asked her son, who perked up at the sound of her conspiratorial tone, "about Saker staying the night here?"

"Can he!?" Scott was beside himself with joy. His wide smile was missing a tooth, that was only just starting to grow in again. "Didja ask Miss Claudia?"

"I did," she replied, confident that she was only telling half a lie. "She'll come get him tomorrow night."

Scott squealed in excitement before remembering himself. He slapped a hand over his mouth and winced comically. Melissa nodded approvingly: those lessons about not bothering their neighbors were finally kicking in. Saker, however, looked less enthusiastic.

"Is mum okay?" he asked in a small voice. "Is she still mad at me?"

"Of course she's not," Melissa said immediately, crouching to look him in the eye. "She's not feeling well, is all. She'll be better tomorrow, you'll see."

He looked relieved. It made Melissa hope desperately that this wasn't a lie.

The next evening, it looked as though Saker had all but forgotten what happened until his mother knocked on the door. Then he tensed all over and dropped what he was doing, much to Scott's confusion. Melissa was equally wary as all three answered the door together.

She looked put together, at least. Claudia had washed and redone her hair. She stood stiffly in a clean dress, with her hands clasped in front of her. Her expression was unreadable.

"Claudia," Melissa greeted her with a friendly smile. Saker waved hello.

"Melissa," Claudia replied. She held out a hand towards her son. "Saker. Come along."

"Yes mum," he said, and took her hand. "Bye, Miss Melissa. Bye, Scott."

"Bye, Saker," Scott chirped. "See you tomorrow!"

"We'll see," said Claudia, and dragged Saker away. Melissa watched from her doorway, wondering if she should have talked things over with her friend before letting them both go.

" _Am_ I gonna see him tomorrow, mum?" Scott asked. Melissa took this as her cue to take him inside and close the door.

"Maybe you should stop by their house tomorrow to find out," she answered, trying not to think about whether she was using her son to scout out the state of their home. "He might be able to come over again."

"Miss Claudia didn't look very happy," Scott observed. She sighed.

"No, she didn't."

A month later, Saker arrived at her doorstep once again. This time, however, he was dripping water everywhere, and coughing as much as he was crying. It was late in the year, and frost was beginning to creep its way into the village.

"What happened?!" Melissa cried, suitably alarmed. She dragged him into her house and dropped him in front of the fire, handing him a small cloth for his face and dropping a towel on his head to dry off with. Scott dropped what he was doing immediately and went to find dry clothes without prompting. Saker half-heartedly patted at the towel on his head. He hadn't stopped crying and refused to speak to them for several long minutes. It was only after he'd been dried off and curled under two blankets with Scott that he spoke.

"She doesn't want me anymore."

"What do you mean?" asked Scott.

"She tried ta get rid o' me," Saker said, voice muffled by the blanket. "Like Mr Galen got rid of those puppies."

Galen had thrown his dog's pups in a bag and tossed them in the river to drown. He couldn't afford to feed them over the winter. The children weren't supposed to have known about it.

"Tha's awful!" Scott wailed. The two of them were close to driving each other to tears. "I wanna keep you. Mum wants to keep you! Right mum?!"

Melissa didn't know what to say.

**8**

Saker didn't go back to his mother. Instead, Melissa kept him at her house, only going to Claudia's to check on her health and pick up Saker's various possessions. She'd gone to the village council, which consisted of herself, the blacksmith, the tanner, the oldest man and women in the village, and an empty seat that used to be Claudia's, about the whole thing. It was a wasting disease, she'd explained, one that affected the mind and changed her perception of things. Despite her misgivings, she had given Saker an examination for any hint of something unnatural. He'd flinched when she had him hold a ball of iron, but accepted his reasoning that the thing was cold well enough. It was, after all, late autumn.

The village assigned Claudia a caretaker, to help her live out the rest of her days. The blacksmith's younger daughter had volunteered for the job - the elder helped her father in the forge - and listened well to Melissa's instructions. Saker visited once every few weeks, sometimes with Scott, sometimes without. Melissa supervised each visit. They never knew which side of her they were going to see. Most of the time, she simply laid there and listened to the boys chatter, or slept. Sometimes, she was violent. Others, terrified.

Nearly a year after it all began, it ended. The blacksmith's daughter had delivered the news. Claudia had distracted her, asking her for something she could only describe rather than name - the first time it had come out that she'd forgotten Saker's name, he'd buried himself under the bed and refused to come out for two days - and while her caretaker had gone to find it, she'd fashioned a noose out of her sheet and hanged herself.

Saker didn't speak for a week.

**8**

"Stop calling me that."

Scott made a face, confused. It was a beautiful day in early spring, two or so months after the funeral. "What, Saker? 'Syour name, though."

"Yeah, but." Saker made a face in return, and kicked at the wall under their ankles. Before them, the village's sheep herd grazed at their leisure. Nearly half of them were shorn, and the two of them had been giggling at their fluffy tails all afternoon. "I don't feel like a Saker anymore. Mum called me that."

"So do mum and I," Scott protested. "And the rest of the village."

"I know that," said Saker, exasperated. "Just - c'mon, Scotty, I need a new name."

"Hmm." Scott make a show of looking down the wall. "Stiles."

"What?"

"I'll call you Stiles!" Scott beamed.

"Like a _ladder?_ "

"Sure! It's 'cause you're taller than me, and so you help me over walls when we sneak out! Like a stile over this wall. See?"

"I see," the newly named Stiles said doubtfully. "But I dunno if I like it. And what if it doesn't stick?"

"Oh," Scott promised, somewhat ominously for an eight year-old, "it'll stick."

He made sure of it.

**8**

When the boys had both turned nine, everything seemed to settle down. _Stiles_ was fitting right in at their home, Claudia's old home had been emptied for new settlers, as per Stiles' request, and the boys got along famously. Outside of natural disaster, Melissa figured, nothing could go wrong.

Then, _of course,_ she found out about the magic.


	2. Chapter 2

"Why am I doing this again?"

It wasn't a real question so much as a whine. Stiles was nearly sixteen and well aware that he'd long since grown out of that childish charm that persuaded many adults to give in to even his more ridiculous requests. Melissa, in particular, had figured him out quickly.

"You're going," the woman herself stated, tugging forcefully on his collar. She effortlessly ignored his ow of complaint. He was never sure why she bothered - it wasn't as though his collar would ever lay correctly. Stiles had grown upwards but didn't have the bulk to match, and he sometimes shared his clothing with his brother, Scott, who was a head or so shorter than he and well-built due to their farming life.

"So thin," Melissa tutted, finally releasing him. He staggered back a step with a theatrical groan, earning him a fondly exasperated half-smile from his adoptive mother. She'd cared for him well in the last eight years, and he loved her dearly. "Make sure to eat well. I don't want to hear of you keeling over in some field across the border -"

"Aw, mum," said Scott with a smile in his voice. Stiles and Melissa turned to see him closing the door behind him. He was covered in dust and sniffling, but wearing a wide grin. "Stiles can take care of himself."

"Damn right I can," Stiles agreed with a similar grin, wiggling his fingers meaningfully. Melissa shook her head.

"None of that in the house," she scolded. "The floor hasn't been the same since the last time you decided we didn't need lamps at night."

"The floor's made of dirt," Stiles protested, subsiding only at her stern look. Scott shrugged at him as he pulled a rag out of his pocket and used it to rubbed the dust off his face.

"Be that as it may." Melissa paused to watch Scott edge further into the room, coming to a halt by the table he and Stiles had broken - and summarily repaired - three years ago. "I want you to write as often as you're able. Weekly, at least. And I don't want to hear in even one of these letters that you've gotten caught, or so help me..."

"I'll just keep it to myself then, shall I?" Stiles joked. Melissa gave his arm a light slap, scowling.

"I mean it! You must be careful. Keep your head down, don't draw attention to yourself. Tom is captain of the guard, and therefore well-known, so people will notice you by association. They'll know if you've done something strange. So -"

"Stay quiet and don't do anything outrageous," Stiles interrupted her, albeit gently. "I know. I will. Don't you trust me to take care of myself?"

"I trust you to take care of us," Melissa retorted.

"Alright," Scott said, stepping forward with his hands up in a placating manner. "Mum, we know Stiles can take care of himself. He hunts us our dinner, doesn't he? If anything, we'll be the ones in trouble when he leaves."

"He does," she allowed. She smirked. "Lord knows you can't hurt a rabbit to save your life."

"Mum," Scott whined. Stiles let the familiar banter wash over him, resolving to remember every moment. Then his brother ruined it all by saying, "So when he does get caught, Stiles can just go live in the forest like a proper magical hermit."

"Scott," Stiles and Melissa cried in unison, the former irritated and the latter admonishing.

"That's the plan anyways," Scott pointed out in his look-at-me-so-sensible tone of voice. He gestured to the door, indicating the forest beyond. "The druids literally live in the forest, Stiles."

"I know that," Stiles grumed. Scott grinned and threw his arms over his brother's shoulder in a full-on hug.

"I'm gonna miss you," he mumbled into Stiles' shoulder. Stiles felt a little teary himself and clung back.

"You too," he said with half-hearted snark. "Can't imagine why."

"Oh," Melissa said, sounding entirely too distressed, and she threw herself into the hug. "Just be safe, will you? And I mean it about the letters, young man. I don't care how they get to us - by delivery, carrier pigeon, or if they pop up fully formed on my workbench, just - I don't want to be stuck here worrying about you because you met someone and forgot to write us to tell us you're eloping, and then none of our letters would reach you, and I'd have to drag you back by your ears to set you to rights for stressing us out!"

"You have much more faith in my romantic life than I," is what Stiles chose to comment on. Melissa scoffed and ran her hand through his hair, a quick one-two swipe that managed to flatten the unruly spikes. He could never manage such a feat on his own.

"More than any of us, really," Scott remarked. "But Stiles. If you fall out of contact for more than two weeks, I will come for you. Don't think I won't."

"Melissa," Stiles started, but she cut him off.

"That's an excellent idea, Scott," she agreed. "Stiles, you've been warned."

**8**

Their goodbyes turned tearful not long after, and Stiles left town by midmorning with a pack full of food and the village waving at his back. Despite his nerves, he felt as ready to do this as he ever would. He needed this, he reminded himself. It was the only way.

It was a good day for travel. The sky was clear and birdsong filled the air. Stiles took a deep breath of clean, forest-scented air and felt good about the trip ahead. Magic trailed from the tips of his fingers, invisible but tangible to him alone, brushing over every blade of grass before sinking into the earth and giving it life. He felt the sensation as though he himself were touching it, and in some way, he was. His hometown was lost to the trees by the time he turned to look back, but that was okay. He felt prepared.

He'd been travelling for two days when he came across the first village. They were a bright, cheerful people, despite their meager means. Their clothes were relatively well cared for, the children were smiling, and no one hesitated to greet Stiles as he made his way through what passed for their main road. They wouldn't let him leave without a night's rest and a bundle of fresh food to take with him. The village was just on the other side of the border, and they were happy to give him directions to the next town.

The second village was nearly the exact opposite of the first. They were a somber lot, perhaps thirty people, dressed in rags and slouching along the dirt street, never making eye contact with one another. They either ignored Stiles or stared too much, muttering to each other with muddy hands over their mouths and watching him with shadowed gazes. None opened their homes to him, even for the night or with offer of coin, and they were too glad to be rid of him the next day. The only way, they'd told him, was through the perilous forest ahead. He'd spend days in there, if he made it out at all, the old man who ran the pub had said uncharitably. He didn't seem very concerned by his own statement, as though their village lost people to the woods all the time. Maybe they did. The people were a suspicious bunch, in both their lurking ways and in their treatment of Stiles. He was only too glad to leave, whispers at his back and poor directions in his hand.

With these two experiences in mind, Stiles found that he no longer had any real idea of what to expect from the kingdom and her people. Melissa had warned him to never reveal his magic to anyone, lest he be caught by the king and executed. And while he had reassured her of his relative control over his gifts, he had doubts as well. His magic had been instinctive since birth, he knew, and it was hard work to keep it locked away when he was well used to it acting out over small things. It tended towards simple things, like luring game to his knife and putting off the rain until the laundry dried.

On the bright side, his visit would only last perhaps two days. Granted, that was more than enough time to fuck up somehow - but what were the odds that he'd get the opportunity to even come close to the palace, anyhow?

He'd been on his second day of travel, and beginning to doubt the words of those strangely hostile villagers, when he found it.

The forest broke into a clearing a few hours after he'd started that morning, around midday. The grass rose to his ankles and crunched beneath his feet, dry from the constant sun of early summer. The clearing seemed to spill over the edge of a cliff, but Stiles still took another two steps forward, enjoying the warmth on his skin and the light breeze ruffling his hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scents of the land around him, and took in the world with eyes and magic alike.

The scene beneath his feet took his breath away. Deep green forests, pitted only by small sections of naturally clear land, stretched for acres before tapering off into scattered farmland. Various patches of homes sprouted around them; he was too far away to see people, but he recalled the bustle of his own small hometown around this time of day and knew it would be the same there.

On the other side of the deep, lush valley, the villages started to cluster. This was the edge of the sprawling kingdom. A river cut through the homes and flowed further inland. People followed. A few hundred acres out, the villages packed tightly together to become a sizable town, nested right upon the tall stone gates of the inner town, which took up the land at the foot of the hill leading up to the castle.

The castle itself was tall, white, and featured the most beautiful architecture Stiles had ever seen, and possibly ever would. It towered above the rest of the kingdom, drawing the eye and seeming to exude light from within.

If only it didn't have such a dark heart.

The thought dampened his mood a little, but not much. Behind those walls, he knew, were hunters of all kinds - of witches, werewolves, and fae alike - all of them eager to have his head as soon as they discover the truth about him. Which they won't, he reminded himself, because he would only stay long enough to see the sights and meet Melissa's mysterious friend, Tom.

Newly determined, he turned to follow the cliff edge down to the land below.

The quickest path to the kingdom avoided most of the village areas entirely, as spread out as they were. The dirt roads were well-traveled but wound ponderously between homes in a fashion that would take another week or more to travel along. This way, the trees and the feel of the earth guiding him along his way, it only took another three days to reach the lower town at the castle gates. The bushes shuffled out of the way, the birds sang to their kin further down the path, the trees were careful not to trip him up. Squirrels joined him at his nightly campfire, faces forming out of tree bark to watch and listen while he talked to overcome his homesickness. It helped, and he was sad to feel the forlorn tug at his magic as he left the trees to enter the city.

The lower town was different from both other villages he'd passed on his way here. No one stared at him, not especially anyways, and at the same time no one shunned him. The ground was paved in cobblestone, and armored guards stood in specific intervals to watch over the people. It was around the same time of day as it had been when he'd surveyed the lands from the cliff, and he was glad to see that he was right. While the number of people here was far higher than his small hometown, the loud and messy chaos of the midday village was very much, comfortingly, the same.

A string of children sprinted past him, giggling and tripping over one another as they ran. Stiles stepped discreetly out of their way, glancing around in search of - there - the parents, who were following closely, half a mind on their conversation and the other half on the backs of their escaping children. It was a group of perhaps seven mothers and one tired-looking father - possibly a brother or minder, but likely not, Stiles figured with an eye on the man's food-stained tunic.

From there, the residential area flowed seamlessly into the market. Dozens of open canopies sprouted from the walls of homesteads, under which their owners had tables set up to line the streets. This place was hectic like he'd never experienced: while he goggled at the throngs of people, he was called out by no less than four merchants who thought he desperately needed their products. The clamor was hell on his ears, especially since he'd spent the last several days in the peacefully quiet forest. But it was lively, and new, so he pushed aside his initial discomfort and went exploring.

By the time he made it through the market, his purse was several coins lighter, and he'd collected treats and small trinkets he resolved to send with his letter, as evidence that he'd arrived. He'd send it by magic, he supposed, somewhere discreet. Not the most auspicious start in the kingdom known for banning magic, but Melissa had given him permission.

He was considering this when he walked in on the execution.

A great murmuring caught Stiles' attention and he looked up right before running into a mass of people. The mood was somber here, in what looked to be the village square. The crowd was uneasy.

"Let this serve as a lesson to all."

With these few words, the mutterings were silenced. Everyone's attention went to a scene in the center of the square.

In the middle of the crowd was a wooden dais. A pair of guardsmen stood on either side of a man, obviously a prisoner, who was crouched at their feet. Before that man was a block. He was clearly meant to place his head there so the man off to the side, the one with the axe, could chop his head off.

An execution. Stiles felt the blood drain from his face.

"This man," the voice continued, "is adjudged guilty of treasonous words and conspiring to use magic against the crown."

He'd been wrong earlier. What Stiles had initially thought was the village square was in fact the castle courtyard. Everyone's eyes were directed up, at a balcony looking over the courtyard where they all stood. They seemed torn between looking at the man above them and the trembling prisoner before them. His guards ushered him forward, pushing his head down so his chin rested on the block. The executioner approached.

"According to the very laws of this kingdom, such practices are banned on penalty of death." Here, the speaker paused. Stiles allowed his gaze to slide upwards, to get a look at the man who so calmly directed this man's death.

"I consider myself a fair and just king," said Gerard Argent, squinting down at them all through the brightness of the summer's day, "but for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass."

He raised his arm slowly, leather gloves catching the light, and dropped it in a slicing motion through the air. Accordingly, the executioner raised his axe, and the poor sorcerous prisoner lost his head.


	3. Chapter 3

_Here's where we start to diverge from Merlin canon. c: It was never going to be by the book anyways, considering the TW cast and the circumstances. If we do this right, you won't stay confused about anything! Or rather, if I do this_ right, _because Biscuit hasn't watched BBC's Merlin and I don't think she plans to. So she'll correct me as we go._

 _SPEAKING OF. Biscuit wrote whole swaths of this, so love her like I do! Any and all feedback is much appreciated! It'll make me feel better about this fic and about my work shift tomorrow. Thanks so much for reading!_

**8**

The crowd, clearly used to such a display, merely gasped. Dismayed, Stiles couldn't watch as the disembodied head rolled off the stump to the dais with a slick thump.

King Gerard chose this moment to continue. He smiled benevolently down at his people as the guards cleaned the mess away - except for the head, which continued to stare blankly into Stiles' soul. "When I came to this kingdom, it was clear the land needed desperate help. Murderous creatures and lying thieves rendered the streets unsafe and the forests fraught with danger. But with your help and my armies, we were able to drive magic and its curses from the realm. We gather here today as a reminder: the battle may yet be won, but the war is not over.

"However, our further success in this never-ending conflict is cause for celebration! Bring out your best cheeses and wine, for today marks the twentieth year since this land was freed from the evils of magic!" He gestured at the market behind him, maintaining that unsettling smile. "Let the festival begin!"

What had Melissa been thinking? Stiles understood well and good that he wasn't to use magic, and that magic was banned in this kingdom. But he hadn't realized - it was so much worse than all that. These next few days couldn't pass soon enough. Suddenly he felt a lot less comfortable being a part of this audience.

The crowd itself was slowly beginning to disperse, small groups of people in twos and threes breaking off to wander into the market, heads bent close together and whispering furiously. Some of them looked pleased after watching the execution, as though the murder of a man was the experience they wanted to take home with them and tell their families about. It was sickening.

Stiles found that he couldn't stay in the courtyard a moment longer. Heart in his throat, he glanced around for a break in the crowd that led to an exit. There was one back the way he'd come, and so he was quick on his feet, only bumping into one woman as he wove through the mass of people with his eyes on the alleyway. His mind was spinning, jumping between Melissa's orders to find her friend Tom and the look on the sorcerer's face as his head was separated from his body. Stiles had never seen such violence, much less anything of the sort being treated as commonplace. And to think, he used to consider the butchering of a cow brutal. But then, that was as much consideration these people had given to that man.

He was meant to stay here for two days .

"Stiles, you idiot," he muttered to himself, finally ducking into the alleyway and pressing his back to the wall, "what have you gotten yourself into?"

Why did he have to have been born with magic? His life would've been so much easier if he hadn't. He could've just stayed with Scott and Melissa, hunting and farming for food for the rest of his life. Sure, it wasn't particularly glamorous or exciting, but he felt that it was exactly what he needed after this whole disaster. There was something to be said for comfort in familiarity. And to think he'd once wanted to strike out and find his father! That certainly wasn't going to happen after what he'd just seen - although, he wouldn't complain if he meet the man on his way back home.

Stiles hit the wall with the back of his head, blowing out a gusty sigh. There was only one flaw with this new plan: he had to meet Tom. He'd already made his peace with the idea that he wouldn't get to go home for several years, if at all, because he needed to train with the druids. Besides, once he got there, he'd be doing all the hunting and quiet living he could ever want. Along with learning more about his magic.

Alright, so there was one benefit to sticking around for just a little longer. The delicious-smelling baked goods at the other end of the alley were another.

All the same, he needed another few seconds to calm his pounding heart before rejoining common society. Heaving a sigh, he peeled himself off the wall and made his way towards the merchants' stalls. The hustle and bustle let up for no man, it seemed, and no one so much as batted an eyelash at somebody slipping into the rush from a dank alley. Perhaps people did it all the time, or perhaps they had no reason to be suspicious. Then again, Stiles thought morbidly, if their king slaughtered people who hadn't done anything wrong as often as it seemed then there probably wasn't much of any crime at all, for fear of being next.

Being next, he considered. He still hadn't sent Melissa that letter, though at this point he was wondering if it was a good idea to even bother with magic. It wasn't likely that someone would notice, but if they did, he'd be next. The reminder sent a chill down his spine. He didn't want to be next.

So lost in his thoughts, he didn't realize there was someone moving against the rush until he bumped into him.

"Watch where you're going," the stranger growled at him.

Stiles, still heavily distracted by his thoughts - not that it was likely to change his response if he wasn't - responded promptly. "You're the one going against the crowd, lunkhead."

The stranger froze in his tracks, finally drawing Stiles' attention. "Excuse me?"

Stiles lifted an eyebrow and gave the stranger a once-over. They were of a height, though that was where the similarities ended. The man's hair - for it was a man, only a few years older than Stiles himself - was black as ink, and his eyes were a strangely pale green-grey. His jaw was sharp and his brows were thick and furrowed into a frown. He was nearly twice the size of Stiles in terms of muscle, and dressed simply but not plainly; the fabrics were clearly of a higher quality than Stiles would ever wear in his life. He had a sword at his belt as well, and a ring on his finger. The man was handsome, sure, but also looked able and willing to snap unsuspecting Stileses in half.

"I said," Stiles answered, "that you're going against the grain. You're about to run into more than just me. Surely those ears of yours caught what I was saying?"

The man blinked, frown creasing further into a glare. Stiles took the opportunity to duck around him and follow the crowd once more.

"What's wrong with my ears?" the stranger demanded, following behind him.

Stiles waved a hand. "Nothing," he tossed over his shoulder. It was true, but he figured those types needed to be taken down a peg every once in awhile. Lingering fear aside, his sort never failed to piss Stiles off.

"Well," and here the stranger's voice took on a mocking tone, stopping Stiles in his tracks, "at least I don't look like a poorly made scarecrow."

Stung, Stiles whipped around just long enough to snap, "I'm not the one prancing around and running into people like you are, you prat!" before continuing to storm off, considering the point made.

"Say that to my face, you little bastard," the stranger called in a furious voice, and well, Stiles never did well under pressure.

"Sorry," he seethed, "would you prefer if I said it in smaller words so you can understand?" With these words, he whirled around yet again to return the man's glare - only, the man was so much closer than he had been moments ago, and their noses brushed by accident. Up close his distinctive features were much more terrifying, that glare more lethal than before.

Stiles took the opportunity to backpedal both verbally and physically, unnerved and, though he hated to admit it, intimidated. "I'm sure one of these lovely, uh - listeners would be more than pleased to repeat it to you," he continued with a glance around at the growing group of observers. It seemed as though half the street had stopped their travels to watch the spectacle before them with the strangest expressions. Combined with the strange man's looming presence, the pressure was beginning to make him feel closed in… trapped. "I, however, have better things to do. See you, sourpuss."

And, feeling like a bit of a coward, he turned on his heel and sprinted away.

" Hey !" He heard the outraged shout from close behind, accompanied by heavy footsteps. He was being followed.

Don't draw attention to yourself , Melissa's voice echoed throughout his mind. Keep your head down.

So much for that, he thought with no small amount of regret. Then again, he wasn't very good at doing what he was told.

The busy marketplace blurred past him; he had eyes only for the small spaces and breaks in the crowd, just big enough to slip through. His pursuer, however, seemed to have no such problems. Gasps and inarticulate cries trailed behind him as the man barreled through the same crowd Stiles wove through with brutal efficiency. He was gaining on him.

Stiles cursed to himself as he tripped over a sharp right turn, barely managing to correct himself by catching the nearest wall with his hands. His turn put him in a narrow alleyway, where he paused to catch his breath, consider his next move, and nurse his scraped palms. At the other end, he saw another street of vendors. A new crowd to get lost in. Maybe his follower would give up if he could manage to blend in.

His moment of consideration cost him. Just as he made his new plan, the stranger appeared behind him, breathing heavily with a snarl on his face.

" You ," he breathed, eyes narrowed.

Stiles meeped and bolted for the exit.

" Will you stop! " the man howled, lunging forward in an attempt to catch him. He felt fingers brush the back of his jacket, but adrenaline gave him the burst of speed he needed to avoid being taken down.

The people on this street were clearly not expecting the pair sprinting through the town. Half scattered and half froze to gawk at the strange sight they presented. Even a few merchants paused to watch, frozen mid-sentence as their customers stopped haggling to get a look at the cause of the commotion. Part of Stiles thought this was all very strange. The other parts were more concerned with his current predicament and what he witnessed in the courtyard, in that order.

Once again, his distraction cost him. As he took his quick look around the area, he caught his foot on something hard and lurched forward. Only, instead of face planting, he fell straight into a stall. It was a spectacular fall - pies flew everywhere and the weak wood collapsed beneath him. His shriek of surprise was muffled by cherry filling.

Behind him, chaos ensued. People jumped back to avoid splattering pies and shards of wood flying. Stiles had a split second, wherein he swallowed the delicious pie that he'd gotten a mouthful of, to mourn the loss of such an important stall. His entire body now ached, and he struggled to get his hands underneath him to pull himself up. He didn't need to put forth the effort - a hand snagged the collar of his jacket and dragged him up and out of the wreck.

"Why," he groaned, but the hand did not belong to the stranger. Rather, it belonged to - judging by the apron - the owner of the stall: the man who baked the pies.

" How dare you!" the baker thundered, shaking him by the collar. He was taller than the stranger, and broader all over. His eyes were squinted and watery and so, so furious. Stiles blinked up at the man, still putting together what had just happened.

"I uh, I'm sorry," he tried, trying to get loose. "It was delicious?"

" Those pies are my life's work !" cried the baker, visibly distraught. He gave Stiles another good shake. "You've ruined everything!"

"I'm sorry!" Stiles repeated, rattled. The stress of the day was getting to him. "I'll pay you!" He didn't have much, but he had just destroyed a whole day's worth of sales. As tasty as the job was.

"You will," the baker agreed, "if I have to take it out of your hide ."

Stiles gulped. "Please don't."

He looked around desperately for help as the man called for guards. The only eye he caught was the stranger's, and just for a second. Then the man turned away and melted into the crowd.


	4. Chapter 4

_Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think 3_

**8**

The guards who apprehended him were tall and bulky, dressed in red livery and chain mail. They were equipped with helmets and halberds in their hands, as well as daggers at their belts. They looked as though they had never smiled in their lives, and so their faces had frozen the way they were. They took heavy, purposeful steps, both to approach him and to drag him off, unaffected by his flailing or protests.

It was this behavior that worried him the most - they didn't seem to care at all.

"Hey!" Stiles protested, lunging forward to grab at the iron bars of his cell as the guards locked the door shut. The cold metal stung his fingers. "This was all a misunderstanding! I was running from a lunatic! Aren't you going to imprison him?"

But he knew it was hopeless, as no one had apparently spoken up about the man who'd chased him, and he'd cleared out as soon as the baker had called for the authorities. Then again, Stiles supposed, watching the guards leave without looking back, his stranger was likely a noble or, at the very least, someone who lived in the castle. With his luck, the man was a knight, ready to take his head off next time they met.

He groaned, turning to take a look at his cell. The dirt floor was scuffed from when they'd tossed him in. The cot was… not a cot, but a heap of stinking hay. From the smell, the hole in the corner served as a chamberpot. Mold crawled down the walls. There was a small window at eye level, also barred, that looked out onto the same courtyard where he'd witnessed the execution. A team of men were taking down the dais. It took three of them to move the chopping block. Stiles looked away, feeling vaguely sick. What if this was where that prisoner had been held before his sentence was passed? Had he been forced to watch the dais' construction?

Stiles very much no longer wanted to be here. Once again approaching the wall of bars, he called out, "C'mon! Will it help if I say I won't do it again?"

Silence. The hall was empty.

"I came here to meet someone!" he tried again. "Can I at least talk to him before you - what are you going to do to me, anyway?"

"I've got a few ideas," came a rough voice somewhere to his right. Surprised, Stiles leaned in a little closer to get a look at the cell across from him. He'd thought he was alone down here.

The occupant of the other cell was a middle-aged man, dirty and dressed in rags. He was leaning forwards, too, and when their eyes met, he smiled slowly. His teeth were cracked and yellow.

Stiles shuddered and ducked back into his own cell. Nope. _Nope._

He sat there, on the dirty pile of hay, the rest of the day and night. At some point between his repeated calls for attention and the other prisoner's lecherous comments, he managed to fall asleep.

Stiles woke the next morning with a crick in his neck, an empty stomach, grime on his face, and a pair of guards glowering at him through the bars.

"Good morning," he tried. One opened the door and the other reached in to tug him out by his arm. The pair of them ignored his running commentary as they dragged him off to - somewhere, he wasn't sure. They hadn't said a word.

Rather than leading him out of the dungeons the way he'd entered, they took him through a side door that led into the castle proper. It was much brighter here, and warmer, with large open window frames letting in the morning sun. Stiles soaked it in, cold and miserable and somewhat damp from his overnight stay. At least he hadn't had to pay for an inn, he thought to himself, though he'd rather be short the money than be forced to experience that again.

It was almost enough to help him forget that the guards were leading him to his doom.

Not one day in the city, he mourned, and he was already captured. They were going to find out, he just _knew it._ They probably had a - a crystal or something, or a witchfinder, that would out him as a magic user the moment he stepped in the room.

They eventually came to a door. It was worn but in good condition, scrapes and dents masked by a dark finish. The brass handle and knocker were slightly discolored with use. The guard on his right released him and went over to announce them.

"What's going on here?" someone demanded, sounding concerned. The guards paused, allowing Stiles the opportunity to peek over his own shoulder to get a look at the speaker.

"Sir," the pair said, coming to attention. They bowed stiffly in the speaker's direction.

The man in question was of average height, with sandy hair peppered with the beginnings of grey. His face was careworn and tanned, and his eyes were a kind blue. He was dressed comfortably in sandy brown and maroon, but carried himself like a member of the court. He was staring at the scene before him - namely, Stiles' situation - with a frown.

Stiles spotted his chance and seized it with both hands - metaphorically.

"I'm not a criminal," he said desperately.

The man slowly looked between Stiles and the guards holding him. "Right, that sounds logical."

"I'm not though!" Stiles replied, trying to think of a way to get out of this while keeping his head. He didn't know who this man was, or why the guards brought him here, but none of the myriad scenarios he'd come up with last night helped him now, and he just knew he had to do something.

"Look, this is all a big misunderstanding and a horrible case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time," Stiles said, searching for any hint of the man's status. "I was being chased by a lunatic! How was I supposed to know that there was a baker's stall around that corner?!"

Stiles didn't know if there was a word for being simultaneously done with everything and being amused, but whatever it was, he was _pretty sure_ he was seeing it on this guy's face. Hopeful, he continued to let his mouth run.

"Listen, there's gotta be something I can do to make this right. I'll work it off! I don't know,

I was only supposed to be here to meet someone. If you just let me go I'll be out of your hair forever."

The man looked to be considering this. "Who are you here to meet?"

"Tom?"

"Do you realize how many Toms there are in just this city?"

Stiles deflated further. At this point the guards were having to take most, if not all of his weight by their strong grip on his arms. They didn't seem to be happy about it either. "Yeah, I know. But Melissa didn't give me much more than 'her friend Tom'." He had a job, but Stiles didn't remember exactly what. Captain of something.

At this point, if Stiles had been looking, he would have seen a small spark of recognition in the man's face. As it was though, he was too busy staring at the floor and cursing his existence. "Did your friend Melissa happen to know what his job is?"

"No," Stiles replied forlornly. "Captain… something."

At this point the man is full on smirking, though even if Stiles was looking he might not have realized. It was a very subtle smirk, more a twinkle of mischief in the eyes than a full blown facial expression."Is that so? Well, what was your name again, son? I don't think I caught it last time."

Peeved, Stiles snaps, "that's 'cause I haven't told you, _sir_."

Here the guards choose to give him a good shake, not liking his tone. The man put a hand up and they shook him one last time before subsiding.

He raised an eyebrow. "Here's where you tell me your name," he pointed out. Stiles scowled.

"Why?" he challenged.

"To start," said the man, "because it's polite. Also, because you must obey the orders of a nobleman. Minor as I am."

 _A noble._ Stiles wasn't entirely surprised, although the man before him doesn't act like what he's been told. "I'm Stiles," he said grudgingly. "Aren't nobles supposed to go around shouting their names at innocent peasants so we know who to curse when we're taxed out of house and home?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Tom Stilinski, captain of the guard."

Stiles groaned. " _You_?"

Now Tom smiled. "Apparently so. Guards," he added in a commanding tone, "release him. I'll take care of the little delinquent."

The guards dropped him immediately and made themselves scarce. "I resent that," Stiles protested as he rubs feeling back into his arms.

"It's good to meet you too," Tom said dryly, moving to the door with the brass knocker. "Why don't you step into my office. We need to make some arrangements."

**8**

Tom Stilinski's office was large, but cramped. A sizable desk, piled high with paperwork and knicknacks, sat in the center of the room. A single chair was placed on both sides. Overstuffed bookshelves lined the rounded walls. There was a single, dirty window adjacent to the door, at head height.

Tom moved the chair facing the door, gesturing for Stiles to sit in the other. "So," he said when they were both situated. "I understand Melissa sent you here."

Stiles considered the ways he could answer this unspoken question. "I didn't fit in there," he said finally. "Melissa hoped that you could help me find a better place to stay?"

"More suitable, perhaps," Tom acknowledged with a tilt of his head. "And your reasoning is…?"

"Is, uh." Stiles wiggled his fingers meaningfully. Tom shook his head, despairing.

"It's probably better that you don't say it aloud, anyways," he mused. "These walls have ears. It's very unsafe for one such as yourself."

"I noticed," Stiles replied, thinking back to the execution the day before. "Trust me when I say I feel very unsafe."

"The trip to the dungeons rattle you?" Tom asked with a knowing half-smile. Stiles shrugged. "Well, it won't be happening again -"

"Of course it won't -"

"Because you won't be going anywhere."

" _What_?"

"Not until the meeting time has been arranged," Tom clarified, one hand up to stall Stiles' protests. "Now that you've arrived, I can get into contact with your new guardians. In the meantime, you can stay with me. However, you're not to leave my home for your own safety. Ten minutes in the city and you've already been arrested!"

"I'll go stir-crazy," Stiles said at once. He could feel the fidgeting already. "Keep me locked up and my ma - my _many talents_ will go to waste! I get bored. Nobody likes me when I'm bored. Things happen." He nodded sagely. "Terrible things."

Tom pulled a face. "I'm sure you can contain yourself."

Stiles leaned forward with a serious expression. "Do you want to find out?"

**8**

And so he was given permission to shadow the Captain, albeit under strict instruction to stay quiet and keep close.

Stiles did his best to obey, but the citadel really was huge, and his residual terror ebbed at the sight of all the unique people and things to see. A quick pass by the castle library became an hour-long stay because he couldn't stop staring at the books. He only got a glance at the kitchens: warm, bright, and full of people - before Tom, having learned his lesson in the library, dragged him away. The rest of the castle was bustling by the time they had left. There were servants everywhere, stuck close to the walls with their baskets and plates, heads ducked as they passed noblemen and members of the court. They seemed less wary of Tom, however, which made Stiles feel a little better about the man.

Eventually, the pair went to the training grounds to talk to one of the knights. Stiles stayed in the shade, out of sight, because by spotting the man who'd chased him his suspicions were confirmed: the man _was_ a noble. Which explained his attitude, he thought uncharitably.

He heard his name called and perked up. Tom was halfway across the training field, gesturing for him to come. He was standing next to a knight in full armor, helmet tucked under his arm. Stiles took a quick look around - nobody was paying attention, and the man who'd chased him was sparring with another knight a distance away - before scurrying over obediently.

"This is Stiles," Tom said as he neared. "He's visiting the kingdom for a short while, and I've taken him in as my ward for that duration. Stiles, this is Sir Boyd."

"Hello," Stiles said cautiously. Sir Boyd was a tall man with dark skin and a serious expression. It was hard to judge anything other than that. "Sir," he added when Tom nudged him.

Boyd regarded him in silence for a moment. "Don't do anything stupid," he said finally. Stiles took that with a frown, slightly stung.

"He won't," Tom promised in a somewhat ominous tone.

"Well, if that's all," Sir Boyd said, "I'll pass it on to the others."

"I'd appreciate that," Tom replied.

" _Hey!"_

All three of them turned to face the noble from the lower town, who was marching across the grass towards them. He looked livid.

"You," the strange noble hissed, his handsome face twisted into a glower. Stiles gulped, leaning away as the man got into his face. "What are you doing here, you little idiot?"

Boyd leaped to attention and said something sharply, but it was lost under Stiles' indignant squawk.

"Who here's the idiot?" he snapped. "You got me arrested!"

"That was your own stupidity," the noble argued. "Not looking where you're going, insulting nobles -" Here he seemed to run out of words. Instead, his glare intensified and Stiles couldn't help but shrink away, angry though he was.

"Stiles," Tom said in a warning tone, "what did you do?"

"Nothing!" he said furiously, gesturing at the seething noble. "This is the lunatic I told you about! The one that chased me? I spent the night in the dungeons because of you!" he added.

" _Stiles_ ," Tom groaned, running a hand over his face. "If you did as he says, then you definitely deserved to spend the night in the dungeons."

"Why?" he demanded, glaring at the other three. "How is this stuck-up prick allowed to -"

"Stop," Boyd commanded. Stiles startled, glancing at the knight's face, which had contorted into anger. "Not another word."

"Why not?" Ignoring the many warnings coming at him from all sides, he continued, "how could he be _so damn important_ that he has the right to just throw anyone he likes in jail? Who do you think you are?" He turned his attention back to the noble. "The king?"

"No," Tom sighed, defeated, "just the prince."

Stiles' mind stuck on the idea and froze. "What?"

"I," the noble said slowly, as though speaking to a small child, albeit through gritted teeth, "am the prince."

"A prince," Stiles said in disbelief. "A prat like you. _A prince_."

" _The_ prince," Tom reminded him, giving his shoulder a shake. "Now is the time to stop talking, Stiles."

"He's right, _Stiles,_ " the prince said. "I can have you thrown in the dungeon again. I could have you _flogged._ "

Stiles paled. Tom's hand on his shoulder tightened, and tugged him a little closer to him.

"Sire," Tom started, but the prince cut him off.

"Take him off the field," he ordered. "I'll send for him later."

Without another word, Tom dragged him away from the prince and the knight. Stiles was too shocked to protest, eyes glued to the noble pair as they put their heads together and started a deep discussion.

 _The prince._


	5. Chapter 5

"I'm an idiot," he said faintly as Tom dragged him off. The Captain had been compelled to apologize on his behalf, repeatedly, as he towed Stiles away from the fuming prince. "Of all the people in this frankly

large city, I find and insult the prince."

"You are quite stupid," the Captain agrees readily, if wearily. "You must have known he was someone important, if he got you thrown in the dungeons over a rude conversation."

Stiles scowled. "So it wasn't about the baker's display?"

"The prince paid him back in full," Tom dismissed. They passed a pair of guards stationed at the start of the hall leading to his office. "I looked into it. The point here — and don't go trying to change the subject — is that you were warned. Repeatedly. Do you have no survival instincts at all?"

He bristled. "I've got plenty, thanks. But how was I supposed to

? He could've been any old uppity curmudgeon for all I was aware. He wasn't present at the," he faltered, mind flashing back to the events he stumbled upon when he first entered the city, "execution."

"Prince Derek never attends if he can help it," the Captain replied. His frown shifted into something darker, thinking on what could easily happen if Stiles didn't get to the druids soon. "I understand that you're just passing through, and probably weren't made aware of the way of things here, but this is important. If you're not more careful, you

end up on that stage. The King takes disrespect seriously. The prince is much more lenient, but still capable of ending a problem. If you push it further, you may not make it to your rendezvous."

Stiles coughed out a strained approximation of a laugh. "What, I'm not worthy of a dramatic rescue?"

"You'll have to stick around a little longer before I go choosing a stupid teenager over my King's ruling," the Captain said dryly. He released Stiles in favor of unlocking his door. "Inside, you. There's the matter of your punishment."

"Punishment?" he yelped, allowing himself to be crowded inside.

"What," said Tom, "you didn't expect to get away with yelling at the prince of this kingdom, did you?"

An hour later found Stiles on his knees in the cold, dank dungeons. His (apparently Prince-sanctioned) punishment was cleaning out the empty cells of all the rot. He was given only a broom and a sack of stale, but not yet moldering, hay to replace the old stuff he'd slept on the night before. And moving it all was terrible, smelly work. The shifting light that peeled in through the cramped, barred windows told him much time had passed since he'd been banished down here for the rest of his foreseeable life. He sighed heavily and kicked at the pile he'd swept into the middle of the aisle. A rat scurried out. He wasn't sure when the furry beast had managed to sneak past him in the first place.

He'd been there for at least another hour when he determined that he needed a moment to breathe fresh air. His arms were covered in gunk, his pants were streaked with dirt and dust, and he was certain his sense of smell would never be the same. Stiles had glanced over his shoulder at least two dozen times to make sure that no one would sneak up behind him and lock him in: a cruel and immature trick to expect from anyone, but then his thoughts of the prince were far from charitable and he had no desire to spend another night there. He was sure he'd been hearing someone whispering behind him, or to one side, but no one was ever there. Worse still, he'd heard his name more than once. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that this place was haunted, which really decided his actions for him.

That, and the creepy old man from the night before was still there, leering away.

Stiles shivered. Enough was enough. He swept the remainder of his mess to a corner that already housed a stinking pile and rested the broom next to it. The bag he'd take with him to return to the Captain. All he wanted now was to wash up and get food.

His goal was to find the kitchens and see if they'd take pity on him. If not, he'd offer the coin he kept inside his boot for emergencies or brave the marketplace. But who knew if there were any other snobbish princes waiting to bash into him there? No, his best bet was to break out the sad face and hope for the best.

A thin, eerie howl chased him out the door. The lone prisoner didn't seem to notice it.

Stiles really was filthy; he got increasingly concerned glances from passing servants until one took pity on him and pointed out a quiet corner where he could wash up. He took the opportunity to ask him for the directions to the kitchens as well. The man had seemed surprised at that, but offered them up easily enough. Stiles was grateful. His stomach had started to rumble as soon as he'd washed off the smell of the dungeons.

The servant's directions were thankfully simple to follow, including a sneaky way to enter that would draw less attention to him. The kitchens were hot, cramped, and full of servants of all ages. A young boy swept crumbs along the foot of the oven closest to Stiles with an appropriately sized broom. A heavily wrinkled woman manned a row of stovetop stock pots with a metal ladle and a stern tone of voice. A dozen people were ducking and weaving around the tables in the center of the room. None of them seemed to be paying any attention to the heaps of food the tables were laden with.

He spied a freshly cut loaf of bread and a wheel of cheese on a platter. No one would miss a slice or two….

Only, he'd just taken one step forward when he rammed right into someone.

That someone had a plate in their hands, laden with food that almost went flying as they jerked backwards. Equally winded, Stiles caught a glance of long, blonde hair before the person in question gathered their wits and snapped back.

"Watch where you're going," the woman said without any real heat. The familiar setup was striking, he thought, amused.

"Sorry," he said hurriedly, reaching out ineffectually (and belatedly) to set her to rights, but she had herself sorted. The blonde woman sniffed and tilted the plate she was carrying so everything slid back to the way it was before he'd nearly run her over. "Sorry. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," was her curt response. "Did you need something? You look like you're in a rush."

The pointed words struck home and he winced in an exaggerated fashion. "No, I," he tried, but then his stomach growled. Stiles could feel himself turning blotchy pink.

She smirked a little. "Thought you could nick some of the King's dinner? Good luck with that. This is for tomorrow's feast and lady Helga," she gave the name with a confusing mix of venom and affection in her tone, "gets downright vicious about these things. It's not safe."

As if on cue, the old woman at the pots whipped around and spat something at a particularly mousy serving girl. The girl cringed and scurried in the opposite direction.

"You won't be getting anything from her," the blonde said decisively. Stiles agreed. "Hey," she added suddenly, staring intensely at his face. He took an instinctive step back, surprised by the weight of her gaze. She made a face, something between a grin and a grotesque scowl that twisted her pale lips. The woman was apparently very good at these strange contradictions.

"So you ran into me," she said. Stiles nodded nervously.

"People seem to be doing that lately," he joked. Rather than looking confused, the blonde only studied him closer. Her expression twisted into a shark-like smile.

"Hmm. Well, you've made me late, haven't you? I've got to deliver this," she lifted the plate, "to my Lady and now I'll never have time to drop off the rest."

"Oh," Stiles said, at a loss. He felt like he'd just been outmaneuvered. "I — can drop them off for you?"

"Excellent," the maidservant replied immediately. "It's only those four plates there,"she gestured toward a set of four loaded plates at the edge of a table, "and they've got to be delivered in full to the training grounds in less than an hour. You can manage that, right, Stiles?"

"I can," he answered with a wave of suspicion. "Hey, how do you know my name—?"

"Hmm," was her only response. "Like I said, they have to be delivered in full, but no one will protest if you leave with them a little overfull, if you know what I mean. When you get there, tell them Erica sent you. Okay? Great! I'll see you later."

And she was gone. The kitchen was still moving fast. No one had noticed their encounter.

Stiles approached nervously, unsure of what to do. To his right, another servant came up to the table, picked up a lone plate, piled on food from the trays in the middle of the table, and left. As he watched, that same man plucked a bread roll off the plate and stuffed it into his pocket.

This action made him feel sort of uneasy. Not only was he coerced into delivering this food for someone, but servants also had to steal food off their masters' plates to eat? What kind of place was the King running here? Executions, petty theft, sending innocent sorcerers to clean out dungeons by hand….

He'd be glad to be out of here tomorrow.

Small problem: four plates, two hands, one young adult with a penchant for tripping and falling on his face. Also, running into people. Remembering the time limit maybe-Erica had given him, he elected to play it safe and take only one at a time. With this in mind, he scooped up the closest plate to him and added a slice of ham and a bread roll for himself. No one paid him any mind.

Stiles only half knew where the training grounds were. He passed them with Captain Stilinski earlier that day, when he came across the crotchety prince and the knight, Boyd. Going to Tom wouldn't exactly be the best idea, however, since he was supposed to be in the dungeons. On top of that, he'd already met his daily quota of not knowing anything and subsequently asking for help. Stubbornness kicked in and he resolved to find the grounds without help. It was outside the castle - how hard could it be?

Apparently, very hard. The only reason he found it in a timely manner is because he went out a wrong door and got spat out by the armory, where he quietly followed a humming servant who had his arms full of wooden staves into the light of the noonday sun. There were two knights sparring in the center of the field, in full armor from head to toe. Presumably the other two knights were out of sight, and would return for food. Maybe. Regardless, Stiles didn't feel up to turning their attention to himself, so he found a wooden bench to place the food on with the intention of going back for the others one by one. When he brought them all out, he would somehow get them to come over. If only Erica had told him how she normally went about this.

He was backing away slowly, one eye on the plate and the other on the door when a sharp call of his name froze him to the spot. A sudden, overwhelming sense of dread filled him as he recognized the voice. Sure enough, when he cast his gaze in the direction of the familiar voice, one of the knights was stalking towards him, stripping the helmet off his head and tossing it to the side like the self-entitled prat he was. That helmet likely cost more than any amount of money he'd ever see in his probably very short, miserable peasant life.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the dungeons?" Prince Derek demanded with a scowl.

"I'm not a prisoner," Stiles retorted without thinking. He almost immediately regretted saying anything at all, the Captain's warning still fresh in his mind. But Melissa had never managed to work his smart mouth out of him, no matter how hard she tried.

"If you really want it, I could make it happen," the prince responded. The scowl tilted up into a smirk, a sardonic expression apparently appreciated by everyone who lived here.

"No thanks, I've got another thing." Stiles gestured to the lone plate on the bench, resuming his slow retreat. "It's very important. Lots of food to deliver. Some of it might even be for you."

"And how did you come across that job?" asked the prince. "It's pretty quiet down in the dungeons, you know. Not too many other people willing to write over the orders of a prince."

"It was the local ghost," Stiles said snippily. "And the creepy old guy. Is he ever gonna move? How long has he been down there?"

Prince Derek ignored all this, running one gauntleted hand through his hair. Somehow it still retained its volume, despite the heat of the day and the weight of the helmet, and not a single strand got stuck in between the gauntlet's plates. Stiles was equally impressed and pettily bitter about it. "The

," he said with an air of heavy skepticism, "has no say over what you can and cannot do while under my orders. And my orders were to spend your time cleaning out the dungeons."

"But you didn't say how long," Stiles couldn't help but point out.

"I shouldn't have had to. You should know that you leave only when I say so. No sooner."

Stiles didn't like that. "What if I needed to use the privy, then? Did I need your permission for that? Maybe I was hungry. What did you expect me to eat - rats?"

At this point, the other knight had begun to wander over. His body language radiated hostility, but not as much as the glower on the prince's face. Prince Derek looked downright murderous.

"Okay," he said abruptly. "Fine. You disobeyed orders from both myself and the Captain of the Guard, which is a punishable offence on its own. But since you seem to be lacking any sense whatsoever, I'll let it slide. New orders: You!" he barked, and the servant Stiles had followed, who had been carefully placing the staves in a neat row on a rack by the door, startled and dropped the rest. "Get the rest of our plates. Stiles here will be joining us out here on the field."

So, Stiles fucked up. Melissa was always right, and he should have listened to her when she'd told him to control his mouth because it would get him in trouble one day. Today, he thought while staring down a very large, very grumpy prince, seemed to be that day.


End file.
